


pick your poison

by lordbhreanna



Series: like oil and water [4]
Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Enemies With Benefits, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Is Nicholai an UNRELIABLE narrator?, Love/Hate, Nicholai is an asshole and tortures a guy, Nicholai's POV, Pining, Resident Evil 3 Remake inspired, Self-Denial, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:00:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22807471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordbhreanna/pseuds/lordbhreanna
Summary: She rubs her brow, closing her eyelids for a brief moment.“Look, we both know this… thisdealis not about the money, clearly. So what are you getting out of it?”More direct than Nicholai had suspected. He stands upright, aware of the height difference and how much it unnerves her. If she wants to pry an honest answer out of him, he’d make her work for it.“I thought you were paying me, Miss Valentine,” he replies, then proceeds to add with a nasty smirk, “or maybe I've turned into a bleeding heart like you and want to help selflessly.”A wry laugh blows out of her lungs before she fixes her sight on him, furrowing.“Cut the bullshit, Nicholai.”“Then ask better questions.”-After Chicago, Nicholai visits Jill's apartment again to fulfill his part of the deal. The rest is under control, he thinks. (But it's not.)
Relationships: Nicholai Ginovaef | Nikolai Zinoviev/Jill Valentine
Series: like oil and water [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1599376
Comments: 42
Kudos: 72





	pick your poison

**Author's Note:**

> Me: Writing this oneshot from Nicholai’s point of view can’t be that difficult, right?
> 
> Narrator: It was.
> 
> As always, thanks to my friends Serena & Eve for their support and beta-reading <3
> 
> TW: If you don't want to read the torture scene, just skip the second flashback (in italics).

One month has passed since Chicago.

Thirty exact days. Standing in front of the door, Nicholai adjusts his jacket. The hallway is quiet and empty, with soft echoes of a TV turned on inside one of the adjacent apartments. A siren blares in the distance, muddled under layers of city noise. He lifts his arm, knuckles grazing the door’s wooden surface. He doesn’t knock, though. Not yet.

Beyond the door, there’s the sound of her footsteps on the hardwood floor. Nicholai hears the spot next to the kitchen counter that creaks louder. She must be preparing herself some dinner. Absently, he finds himself imagining her, sitting on the stool, perhaps tucking behind her ear a strand of rebellious hair that gets in the way as she eats, droplets of water falling down her neck because she just came out of the shower. He remembers the smell of her soaked skin, and his nostrils flare up as an instinct, trying to sniff the memory.

Blinking himself away from the stupor, Nicholai shuts his eyes for a beat and clears his throat. 

In the long run, this hasn’t been his wisest decision. Chicago triggered something he had under control, crawling at the back of his mind. Something that makes him lose focus, oddly reckless. It had gone one step too far and he hadn’t been prepared—the scars he garnered that night are the reminder, and Nicholai learns his lessons well. 

_His skin is coated in blisters, still inflamed. Raw flesh peeks out from the burnt blotches over his neck and back. When he applies the dry towel to a swollen area, he can’t help but grit his teeth and swear under his breath._

_Then the phone rings. He waits until it rings a few more times to pick it up, already aware of who will be answering on the other end. It’s not a conversation he’s eager to engage in._

_“Silver Wolf,” Sergei Vladimir says in Russian; he doesn’t sound amused. “I was almost worried.”_

_“You worry too much. Maybe you’re getting old,” Nicholai mutters into the telephone, squeezed between his shoulder and ear as he continues to clean the wounds to the best of his ability._

_“Is it done?”_

_He clicks his tongue in annoyance, throwing the towel in the sink. “Of course it is. Doctor is dead, the data is gone.”_

_Sergei’s laugh reverberates in the distance. Nicholai’s frown deepens._

_“You never disappoint. The other executives will be satisfied too. If we are not smart, Umbrella’s demise might be nigh. We must be prepared.”_

_Nicholai doesn’t offer a reply, simply breathing heavily against the receiver. It’s not as if he has devoted a single thought to those motherfuckers since he left Chicago. His mind wanders to her eyes, the look on her face before she was gone. The blind instinct that had possessed him to grab her. The burning fury running through his veins._

_That’s a problem, he knows it._

_“Something you would like to mention? You seem… troubled, my friend. ”_

_“And you’re way more talkative than usual,” he retorts with a grunt. “I expect my payment tomorrow, you better get it ready.”_

_Sergei speaks, not hiding the hint of disappointment in his voice._

_“It’s all about money with you, Silver Wolf.”_

_Nicholai wishes it were still an unmovable truth._

The chain effect of his ill-fated actions has led him here, to her door. Again.

Keeping Chicago in mind as a constant warning, Nicholai has had time to reflect on this new situation. He recognises now what this is. He’s like an addict, asking for a dose of his poison of choice. His is her, apparently. In some twisted way, he doesn’t regret the deal, though—because he can’t stop wanting her since the safehouse. A fleeting impulse that he’ll indulge in for now until it wears off; until he tires. Nothing more. He can work with that.

His lips curl up, boasting the most annoying smirk he can pull off. His fingers tighten around the folder he carries.

He knocks softly. 

**-**

When the door opens, Jill Valentine welcomes him with a scowl and arms crossed over her chest. Back straightened up, already wearing a defensive attitude in response to his presence. Nicholai finds her animosity enticing. Her hair looks slightly disheveled, as if she hasn’t slept one bit, and dark circles frame her eyes. The worn-down look feels more striking against her young features. 

“You’re awfully on time,” she remarks with a bite, checking him up and down, as if his punctuality is more of an offense than him not showing up.

“At least I knocked this time, right?”

Stepping aside to let him in, Jill opens the door wholly, her fingers already pinching at the bridge of her nose with weariness.

As he treads inside, Nicholai notices the subtle changes in the living room. Some furniture did not survive his last visit. A different coffee table lies in the middle of the room. The carpet underneath probably hides a set of damaged planks on the floor. Only the sofa has endured their previous brawl. It’s not the decorations that catch his attention, but rather the large board that stands next to the desk.

Nicholai assumes by that seemingly trivial detail that Jill Valentine mustn’t have many visitors in her apartment. Otherwise, this would make any normal person think she’s a tad crazy, to put it mildly: the board is thick with printed files, newspapers clippings, dozens of profile photos. His feet wander casually to it, trying to get a closer look. 

A bright red thread connects several pieces of intel with tacks, while most of the files have underlined sections in the same striking color. Nicholai even recognizes some of the information he had handed her in the disc months ago. Rubbing his chin, he inspects the photos and isn’t surprised in the slightest to find one of Sergei, the official one that populated Umbrella’s databases. After all, he’s one of the remaining public executives the corporation still had. He can’t help a muted chuckle to himself.

If only she knew how much Sergei was unwillingly a part of this.

He hears her approaching from behind.

“Did it hurt?” 

She’s staring at the glimpse of blemished skin on his neck, which the collar of his shirt doesn’t conceal.

“Like hell,” he replies succinctly. Waiting for her reaction.

The glint in her eyes betrays her, showing more than simple scorn. These wounds aren’t a reminder just for him—she had been there, too. For Nicholai, it feels almost like she’s the one who scarred him. 

With contempt bathing her answer, she adds, “Can’t say you didn’t deserve it.”

Oh, anger has won. She’s so, so furious at him because of the vaccine. Nicholai expected it, and all her body language since she opened the door screams frustration, a quiet rage pouring out of her in little gestures.

Good, he thinks. He likes it when she’s angry, when it starts with her trying to get a hold of herself, to keep the boiling hate in check. Then she begins to act more on impulse, as he has witnessed in their past encounters. It’s the moment he can’t anticipate her, when she surprises him. It means the night can only get better. 

Nicholai takes a step towards her. She lifts her chin up to keep eye contact, as a burrowed frown crowns her expression.

“There are worse wounds than second-degree burns,” he adds, tauntingly.

He’s not particularly interested in having a conversation about it—about those words he had yelled without thinking. As much as he can do introspection, he never shares. Especially not with someone like her, whose effect on him is already worrying by his standards. He's good at what he does for a reason, and that has never included emotions of any kind **.** He has to learn not to be careless around her after Chicago. Even so, the implication is enough to suggest it, to get under her skin as they circle around it—a light push, just to see how far she’s willing to confront him. It’s close to playing with fire, except Nicholai has already been burnt and knows when to stop. She? Not so much. 

Throwing him a puzzled glare, she swallows a lump and purses her lips. The gesture draws his eyes to the curve of her throat, the dip at the end of her collarbone outlined by the necklace she still wears. It’s amazing how stunning she can look in plain clothes; a simple blue shirt tied over her belly that grants a glimpse of her naked navel, threadbare shorts, white tank top. Nothing remarkable in any other woman, and yet his eyes are glued to the view. The thought crossing his mind takes him aback. Only when she moves, pacing around the room, does he realise he has been mesmerized in his contemplation of her.

She rubs her brow, closing her eyelids for a brief moment. 

“Look, we both know this… this _deal_ is not about the money, clearly. So what are you getting out of it?”

More direct than Nicholai had suspected. He stands upright, aware of the height difference and how much it unnerves her. If she wants to pry an honest answer out of him, he’d make her work for it.

“I thought you were paying me, Miss Valentine,” he replies, then proceeds to add with a nasty smirk, “or maybe I've turned into a bleeding heart like you and want to help selflessly.”

A wry laugh blows out of her lungs before she fixes her sight on him, furrowing.

“Cut the bullshit, Nicholai.”

“Then ask better questions.”

Pressing forward, he closes some of the distance. A brief moment of silence passes between the two, only interrupted by the incessant blast of claxons and mumble of voices on the street outside. They keep staring at each other, the quietness filled with the wave of background urban ruckus. Nicholai leans in slightly; she doesn’t waver, holding her position. Her lips move, as if they are trying to give form to the question she wants to throw at him, but remain hesitant to do so. 

Nicholai can’t help fixating on them, their pink shade, their plumpness, begging to be bitten like a ripe fruit. Finally, she puffs out a breath and speaks.

“Ok, what do you _want_ out of this deal?”

They both know there are more straightforward questions at the tip of her tongue—questions he has no answers to provide, or won’t provide. She’s playing coy. Nevertheless, Nicholai will indulge in her need to verbalize this thing between them. 

With another step in her direction, the gap between them vanishes. He hopes she can feel his breath on her face, just as he feels hers and the warmth from her body. Nicholai towers over her effortlessly, noticing how she flinches briefly at the closeness. As her lips are pressed together, tense and on edge, he sees how she catches her lower one between her teeth abstently. His mouth curls up in a thin smirk, bending his neck lower.

“You,” he responds, candidly. 

Nicholai can listen to her gulping, her pupils widened. But as the air seems to abandon her lungs, her stance isn’t shaken. She’s tough to crack, and that just makes him want her more.

“And if I refused?” she posits, chin tilted up.

“I’d leave and go wait by the elevator,” he jokes with a cocky grin. “You started this, maybe you should be asking yourself what you want.”

A snort comes out of her lips, the hint of a smirk at the tips.

“Hey, I’m not the one coming up with shitty excuses, almost begging for more.”

His dry chuckle fills the room. Raising his hand, thumb brushing briefly against her chin, he whispers, “I’m sure I could make you beg, Miss Valentine.”

Nicholai can feel it, the shudder that runs down her spine, how the hair on her nape stands up as he hums so close to her fevered skin. He can see it written in her expression, how this stirs up something feral in her, how she can’t help it—and how it annoys her endlessly, as much as she enjoys it. 

She’s glowering, her sharp eyes stabbing him with a cold look. Inside her mind, she’s probably coming up with a witty rebuke, something to throw at him like a knife in return. Before allowing her the chance, Nicholai takes the folder he’s been carrying on his other hand and shoves it against her chest, angling his head to the packed board.

“In any case, I’m sure you could use this.”

The crumpled folder lands on her hands. She exchanges a few suspicious glares between him and the stack of papers, then decides to peek inside. With the tip of her finger, she turns the pages quickly, skimming its contents. Nicholai notices the light flushing of her cheeks.

“Care to enlighten me?” she asks bitterly, settling into her desk’s chair.

“The lawyers’ strategy for the next round of trials,” he informs, walking languidly around the room under her watchful glance. “They’re going to place all liability on Birkin. The official story now is that he was a rogue scientist who created the virus behind their backs at the Arklay Research Facility and then NEST, without upper management’s approval. They’re even accusing the US government and military of conspiring with Birkin. They’ve got evidence to back that up, I might add. A very entertaining read,” he ends up, not hiding the amused shadow of a smile.

The thick folder lies on her lap, brimming with reports and files. She rearranges the papers, sight fixed on them with an indescifrable expression cloaking her face. No thank you comes out of her mouth, which Nicholai would’ve enjoyed hearing. He has just handed her a winning lottery ticket in her war against Umbrella. But what Nicholai likes most is that she _doesn’t_ thank him—that she remains so confrontational, despite it all. She’s tough as nails, and that aspect of her he can admire freely.

Shaking her head, she groans in disbelief, her voice painted with increasing anger. She surges up from her seat abruptly, hands tightened around the folder firmly until it flies from her grasp onto her desk, scattering some of its contents. She starts pacing around again.

“That’s bullshit. No one will buy it, not after…”

“You need better prosecutors in this case, Miss Valentine,” he interrupts, his tone more terse. “Umbrella might go down, but cockroaches know how to get away from danger.”

Her fingertips land on her temples, massassing them as fatigue falls over her features like a somber mist. A sigh leaves her lips, while her lower back meets the counter's edge. She leans against it, shoulders slightly slouched.

“Where did you get this? You don’t strike me as the type that mingles with the legal branch,” she scoffs quirking an eyebrow, finger directed at the desk.

She’s right to be skeptical, Nicholai thinks.

“I have friends in high places.”

_The blade slices along his jaw, not deep enough to cause any life-threatening wound yet. Only to bleed and hurt like a thousand needles. Nicholai’s steady hand doesn’t falter for a second, the knife expertly grasped between his fingers. The man whimpers. His face is already swollen and bruised._

_The man restrained on the chair is one of the attorneys at Umbrella’s private legal team. Brandon something something. They had all been hand-picked by the high executives of the company. This one is well-acquainted with Sergei, which is the sole reason Nicholai has chosen him. Unlucky bastard, he thinks amusedly, wiping the sharp blade clean with a dirty cloth._

_“I can do this all night,” Nicholai assured, almost in exhaustion. “But I’d rather not. So you better spit it out soon.”_

_“I c-can’t,” Brandon stammers, grimacing. There’s blood all over the white collar of his shirt. “They’ll know it was me, and they’ll kill me…!” he shrieks, tears and snot dripping down his cheeks and nose._

_Nicholai remains motionless, readying the knife._

_“I will kill you before them. And you don’t want them hurt either, right?” he picks up the photo from one of his pockets, waving it in front of the lawyer._

_The picture shows a happy family, smiling charmingly at the camera. A middle-aged woman next to a boy and a girl. Conveniently, none of them are at home since they had left two days ago for a family visit on the opposite side of the country._

_Brandon starts to wail pitifully. Nicholai thinks about the headache this pig is going to give him if he doesn’t shut up. For now, he doesn’t worry about the noise. These bastards always live outside the cities, in big isolated houses. Makes the job easier for people like him, no matter how much security they hire._

_“Please, sir, leave them alone, they have done nothing!” Brandon pleads as his head shakes wildly, bursting into a fit of cough when the blood obstructs his throat and his running nose continues to leak._

_With a tired sigh, Nicholai drags a chair in front of him and sits down. He still fidgets with the knife, his foot tapping on the floor._

_“You know the colonel, Vladimir, right?” Brandon nods energetically, wriggling in his chair. “He hired you.” Another nod. “You’re thinking of telling him what has happened here. You will inform him about what I asked, right?” Brandon doesn’t nod this time. Instead, he stops moving at all, frozen. “Oh, you wanted to do that. Sergei would believe you. No offense, but you look like shit. Very convincing.” Nicholai takes a theatrical breath, raising his eyebrows. “But the truth is he won’t believe you, because I will talk to him first, tell him he has a mole in his office. And he will believe me, because he trusts me. Because we have fought together in war. We were comrades,” he adds a bit of flair to his dramatizacion by patting his chest with his index finger. The lawyer swallows loudly. “I could kill you right now and he wouldn’t bat an eyelid if I told him you were the traitor.”_

_Standing up in a sudden move, he circles around the man. His fingers enclose around his fat neck, pressing hardly where it hurts the most—where he can choke him in a matter of minutes if necessary. Brandon is already beaten almost to a pulp, it wouldn’t take long; but Nicholai is feeling especially vicious tonight._

_Maybe because, deep down, he’s angry—mostly at himself, the wounds on his back still too fresh to forget._

_“Or you can talk about what you little pieces of shit have planned for this show and inform my friend Vladimir this was simply a mugging. Then I’ll let you live and forget about this,” he dangles the photo again at Brandon’s face with his free hand._

_His MO has never involved killing children, husbands or wives. He’s only interested in the target. But he does enjoy seeing the panic creeping up his face with every threat. He applies more pressure to his choke, making sure his thumb is rubbing a pretty scathing gash on the folds of his neck. The man shudders in pain under his hand._

_“V… very well,” the lawyer mutters finally, tears piling up in his eyes. “I’ll tell you everything.”_

_Nicholai surrounds the chair after releasing Brandon_ _from his chokehold and kneels before him, a smug smirk on his lips. After putting the knife back in his belt, he takes the photo and tears it down in two._

_“Excellent choice.”_

She stares at him, both eyebrows raised.

“You? Friends? Now _that_ I don’t believe at all,” she snickers, mildly baffled at the concept.

Nicholai concedes her doubts are well-founded, because he’s not behaving like any good, loyal friend would. Quite the opposite, he’s betraying everything Sergei is trying to savage out of this mess. The man has become too enthused in Umbrella’s doings, the influence of its elusive founder luring him with promises of greatness, perhaps. That has always been Sergei’s most blatant weakness—he tends to get too caught up in vain ideals. Restoring the motherland and all that bullshit.

Unlike his former comrade, Nicholai is rooted in materialism. He values what he can have, not concepts born out of delusion; and that is why, as much as he knows he’s betraying the only man he might call friend, he doesn’t regret it for a minute. He comes over anything else, so he’d rather indulge in his current whim. 

“I never said I was a good friend,” Nicholai adds, finally, as she studies his every move.

Silence is the only answer he receives out of her this time. Then she approaches her desk, opens a small drawer and picks up something quickly. A moment later, she’s tossing him one wrinkled dollar note. He catches it midair without breaking eye contact with her.

“Here’s your payment.” She crosses her arms firmly, then shrugs. “Now what?”

His stare remains riveted on her, although he knows it’s his turn in this strange verbal chess match they are playing. Just like in the safehouse, she’s willingly exposing herself. Is she testing him? Seeing if he would try to subdue her to get what he came for? Nicholai finds the idea amusing to a certain extent, a complete reversal of what unfolded in that grim safehouse. They’d end up fighting this time, killing each other for good, he’s sure of that. 

She’s a clever girl, and he can’t help thinking that with a layer of respect for her cunning. But that’s not what he wants out of this, not his style, so for now he decides to opt for the safest angle and wait for her next move.

“My turn to leave, I guess,” Nicholai informs, nodding to the entrance door. “ _Sčastlivo_.”

Before he turns around, he catches a glimpse of her eye-widened stare, gawking with lips slightly parted. Nicholai strides towards the door, however, and he gives a brief wave of his hand as a goodbye. When he grabs the doorknob, he pauses for a beat, but no sound of footsteps follows him through the short corridor. 

He leaves, closing the door softly behind him. The hallway remains as quiet as it was when he had arrived, with the faint sound of the neighbour’s television on still perceptible and the distant noises of the city that leak through the fire exit at the right end. Nicholai walks to the elevator without rushing. His steps echo all around, granting the place a somber atmosphere as lights flicker spontaneously. Something tells him she won’t come out this time when his finger pushes the button. When the elevator door clings open, there’s still no trace of her yet. He simply goes inside, hands jammed into the pockets on his jacket.

The chill night breeze kicks him in the face when he exits the building through its main entrance, though the cold holds barely any effect on his body. His feet move down the stairs on their own, while he considers all the possibilities. That this might be the very end, as if someone would plug out the needle out of his system, denying him his dose. Or that this might end as he wishes, because he’s not the only one craving this kind of poison.

“Hey, Nicholai!”

Lost in thought, Nicholai almost misses her voice coming from above. He twists his neck up to find the sight of her, half her body pulled out from the window. Her forearms rest on the windowsill, shoulders slightly hunched and trembling as she receives the blow of a cool gentle draft. A lock of her hair sways over her eyes and she quickly places it behind her ear.

“I think you forgot something,” she states without raising her voice too much, eyes locked on him.

He stands right under the window, offering her an icy stare.

“What is it, Miss Valentine?”

For a moment, words elude her and she stays there slightly gaping. Struggling to find what she wants to say. In the end, she tips her head to the inside of the living room.

“Come up again.”

Since she has made him walk down to the street, he decides to play difficult.

“And if I refuse?” he asks cockly, glaring at her with defiance.

Despite the distance, Nicholai notices the roll of her eyes, the way her mouth moves enunciating a word (insufferable, he thinks) before she pulls herself inside and shuts down the window pane. Nicholai sees the outline of her back moving away, and his feet retrace his steps to the flight of stairs. It takes him less than five minutes to arrive in front of her door, which is already waiting for him half-opened, inviting. 

The door creaks lightly on its hinges as he makes his way inside again, then it closes with a louder thump. Coming from the kitchen, she steps into the corridor and stands there without moving, holding her breath while she wriggles her hands nervously. It’s the first time Nicholai has seen her anxiousness seeping through this much. 

He takes his hands out of his pockets and leans back against the door. All her struggle is lathered on her face as if she were a painting, her eyes glimmering under the opaque artificial lights of the lamps. She walks tentatively towards him, barefooted, and the floor grates lightly with each step.

“Have you decided what you want out of this?” he asks almost gravely, his voice throaty, as she closes in.

She darts her eyes up to meet his glare, biting her lip. Nicholai has noticed that specific mannerism in her before when she’s tense, and he allocates that tidbit of information as details he should watch out for carefully when reading her. 

When there’s barely an inch of space between them, she lets out a heavy sigh.

“Yes,” she hums in a shuddering breath.

Immediately after, Nicholai feels her hands pulling him down, fingers crumpling his shirt as her lips smash against his. He traps them between his teeth, and they’re both like wanderers through the desert drinking desperately from a well. He doesn’t even take a moment to smugly relish into the turn of events, his mind going completely blank.

One of his arms loops around her waist and pulls her to his chest, as his other hand cups the back of her head. It draws a muffled moan from her lungs into the kiss, her fingers clutching at the collar so hard her knuckles go white. Nicholai feels insane, almost unaware of his actions and completely in control at the same time. 

Still holding her tightly, he switches their positions. Her back hits the door’s surface hard, producing a rattling noise, as Nicholai slams her against it, his fingers sunk down at her hip fiercely. She doesn’t protest, though, standing on her tiptoes while her arms slide around his neck and their breaths start to get more and more frantic, gasping agitatedly.

Nicholai might as well have passed out in that instant, but he doesn’t leave her mouth for a second. He had come for his fix, after all—so he’d rather drown in it.

-

Watching her has become a fascinating activity, and he can’t help fixing his gaze on her while getting dressed. His eyes study the lines of her shoulder blades, muscles shifting as she picks up her scattered clothes from the floor, still seated on the couch. He rests them on each faint scar, on every mole along her arms and spine. He dallies counting the marks he is responsible for, and not only the scars—no, he sees a couple mauvish spots on the back of her neck, some bite marks too. It reminds him of the paths carved by her nails on his back muscles.

The roughness they’ve given in into this time makes him think she might be drawn to this simply to work her own demons out, to release that untamed side that torments her every day as she plays the part of a dutiful citizen fighting against injustices. He’s become her outlet, and Nicholai is fine with that.

But as his anchored stare lingers, he realises he is standing there unmoving, fingers still grabbing the hem of his shirt. Suddenly, she turns her head and catches him unexpectedly. Her cheeks are still a bit flushed, sweat drops on her forehead. There’s a slight sense of confusion in the way she looks at him. 

“What?” she blurts out, squinting, her blue shirt lying on her lap. But her eyes also flicker, perhaps a bit self-consciously.

That’s the moment Nicholai understands he’s in too deep, too addicted to this thing they have. Because, as she sits there, half-naked and with glinting eyes, something still compels him to lift his hand and touch her. To bow down his head and bury his nose in her hair, taking in the scent so that he never forgets it. To run his hands through her skin and find all the little imperfections spanning her body.

This has never happened before, which fills him with unease and an unsettling feeling that perches at the pit of his stomach. It unnerves him that it’s happened at an alarming rate, and for the first time in his life he doesn’t really know how to process something.

Blinking into focus, he shifts his bearings and finishes getting dressed, lacing his boots while averting her gaze.

“Always a pleasure doing business with you, Miss Valentine,” he answers, masking his own agitation with a callous tone. “Until next time.”

This time he doesn’t slow down his pace to taunt her to come back after him. He rushes towards the door, knocking it closed this time, and he finds himself once again in the hallway. It’s only when he reaches the elevator that he realises he’s forgotten to take the dollar.

**Author's Note:**

> From what I’ve read, Sergei Vladimir as a Russian name makes no sense because it’s just two first names… but this is RE and we have to love it as it is I guess, ridiculous names and all (let’s not forget they called the village in RE4 Pueblo, which is literally just “village” in Spanish and completely bonkers.)
> 
> Anyway, Sergei was super loyal to Spencer in canon, and he relinquished all his clones to Umbrella to help his country after the Iron Curtain fell or at least that’s what’s implied [here](https://residentevil.fandom.com/wiki/Letter_from_Sergei_to_Nicholai). That letter also implies Nicholai and Sergei knew each other from the Soviet Army. [After the fall of the Soviet Union, Umbrella hired a lot of its soldiers, like Sergei and Nicholai.](https://residentevil.fandom.com/wiki/Sergei_Vladimir#Joining_Umbrella)
> 
> [The whole legal proceedings are kind of documented in canon too, known as the Raccoon Trials](https://residentevil.fandom.com/wiki/Raccoon_Trials). [Wesker even mentions the issue in Umbrella Chronicles](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ofpWe0HdARs).
> 
> [Nicholai was trained in assassination during his time as a Spetsnaz.](http://projectumbrella.net/articles/Nikolai-Zinoviev#EarlyLife19631991)
> 
> While his friend Sergei was more concerned about restoring Russia’s greatness, [Nicholai joined Umbrella because of money](http://projectumbrella.net/articles/Nikolai-Zinoviev#UmbrellaCareer19911998). Relatable tbh.
> 
>  _Счастливо (sčastlivo)_ is an expression to say goodbye and it means “take care” (if any of you are Russian/speak it, please feel free to correct me, I’m trying to use it as little as possible because I have no knowledge whatsoever, but sometimes it fits nicely that a character speaks their mother tongue.)
> 
> Before finishing up, just wanted to thank you everyone who has left a comment/kudo/bookmarked any fic from this series, I get overwhemingly happy and I'm so glad you're all enjoying the ship and my stories. It really makes me want to keep writing more. Thank you and I hope you keep enjoying them! <3


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